The Flavor of Banzo's Sword

**Summary:** The hot-tempered young man Matajuro wants to learn swordsmanship quickly, but his master Banzo makes him work silently for three years, until he understands that patience and mindful awareness are the path to mastery.

The wind of Mount Futara swept through the pine branches, carrying the chill of early morning, as the young man Matajuro stood before the door of a small wooden house nestled into the mountainside. He clenched his hands, which were trembling slightly, took a long breath, and knocked. Inside was Banzo—the famed swordsman respected by all, the man Matajuro had trekked over mountains and forded streams for days to find.

Matajuro was not a stranger to the way of the sword. His father was a renowned sword master, a local star who had won countless times with his blade, in both life-or-death duels and formal contests. In his son's eyes, the father was an idol, the path he yearned to follow. But his father looked at his son and shook his head. The son's talent was too mediocre, he thought, with little hope of ever becoming a master—and so he refused to teach him. This was the deep wound Matajuro carried with him when he left home to find a new teacher on Mount Futara.

Yet Banzo looked him over and delivered a verdict no different from his father's: "You want me to teach you swordsmanship? You lack the qualities to learn the sword."

Matajuro's heart constricted. He asked urgently, "If I practice with utmost diligence, how many years would it take for me to become a sword master?" "The rest of your life."

The answer was like a bucket of cold water thrown in his face. Matajuro swallowed, trying to quell the desperate haste inside him. "I cannot wait that long. I will endure any hardship if you teach me. If I devote myself as your servant, how long then?"

Banzo relented slightly. "Oh, perhaps ten years." "My father is already old and I must soon care for him. If I train even more diligently, how long?" "Oh, perhaps thirty years."

Matajuro was stunned. His hands clenched until his knuckles turned white. "What? First you said ten years, now thirty? I will overcome any hardship to master the sword in the shortest time!"

Banzo gazed at him, his eyes seeming to peer into the man's very core, and replied slowly, "Very well. On the condition that you stay here with me for three years. A person as hot-tempered and impatient for results as you rarely learns quickly."

Just then, like a flash of lightning piercing the mountain mist, Matajuro understood he was being chided for his lack of patience. He exclaimed, "Agreed! I accept!"

And so three years passed—three years during which no one heard Matajuro utter a single word about swordsmanship, and not one day did he touch a sword. He cooked for his master, washed the dishes, made the beds, swept the courtyard and the house, and tended the garden. Each morning, smoke rose from the kitchen hearth of the wooden house; each evening, he folded his master's bedding layer by layer and polished each bowl clean. Throughout it all, he spoke not a word of swordsmanship.

Yet in his heart, there were nights he lay staring at the ceiling, overcome with a profound sadness for the future. Three years had passed, and the art to which he had devoted himself had not even begun. Sometimes he wanted to leave. Sometimes he wondered if he had been deceived. But the promise made on that first day—and Banzo's profound gaze—kept him there.

Then one day, as Matajuro was deeply engrossed in his work, Banzo silently crept up behind him and struck a terrifying blow at the nape of his neck with a wooden sword. He could not react in time. The next day, as he was cooking, Banzo suddenly leaped over him. Day after day, night after night, from any direction, at any moment, unexpected attacks would come. Matajuro had to remain constantly vigilant, always mindful. Gradually, there was not a minute he did not contemplate the essence of Banzo's sword—while sweeping, while cooking, while sleeping, even within his breath. He learned very quickly, and he brought his master many a joyful smile.

And in the end, Matajuro became the greatest swordsman in all of Japan.

This story is found in the *Sand and Stone Collection* of Zen Master Mou Yu—a book gathering meaningful stories for Zen practice. The Japanese have a wonderful quality of elevating technique to the Way: flower arranging becomes the Way of Flowers, tea drinking becomes the Way of Tea, archery becomes the Way of the Bow, and wielding the sword becomes the Way of the Sword. Sword technique is merely about wielding moves with skill, precision, and power. But the Way of the Sword is the path of refining the original mind—and Matajuro's lesson is precisely the lesson of a Zen practitioner: haste and impatience lead only to delay, while patience and mindful awareness in every moment cause the path to unfold naturally.

**The Meaning of the Story**

Most Venerable Thích Chân Quang wishes to convey two lessons through the story of Matajuro. First, patience is essential in the pursuit of learning and cultivation: the impatient person, who rushes for quick results, finds success even more difficult—"the more you hurry, the longer it takes." Only by patiently enduring hardships and not reacting with anger to challenges can one learn anything completely. Second is the quality of mindful awareness: just as Matajuro had to constantly guard against unexpected blows from behind, the Zen practitioner must always be alert, without letting their guard down, for afflictions are like enemies lying in wait to strike unseen. One must maintain a mind of wakeful awareness in every moment of life in order to truly transform oneself and realize the authentic Way.

*Compiled from a dharma talk by Most Venerable Thích Chân Quang.*